


A Neutral Third Party

by pelinal



Series: Hello stranger [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/F, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Reunions, Rite of Tranquility, god i hate the word frottage but i brought this on myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-14 15:53:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18951271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pelinal/pseuds/pelinal
Summary: "Whatever it is, you can ask him yourself." Sumia waves and in the distance, someone in the courtyard waves back. The figure disappears in a flash of blue and reappears a few feet away. "Nice Fade-stepping.""I try," says Solkr, grinning his wide, beautiful grin. "Hey, you," he says to Jowan, who just stands there like a particularly dimwitted tree.





	A Neutral Third Party

"It is good," says Leliana, smiling faintly into her wine glass, "that we finally have a chance to talk."

Jowan stifles a giggle. Stupid sod. It wasn't even funny. "Sorry. You're right. Sorry." He clears his throat. "I've heard a lot about you."

"Oh?"

"From Sumia, I mean. I. . .congratulations. I mean on. Your whole wedding. Sorry," he says again, placing his fingers against his temple.

"It is still difficult," she says, and for an instant he adores her because she's said it and now he doesn't need to. "Thank you, though. You are about five years too late, but I think I still have our gift list stashed away somewhere."

"I've no money," says Jowan breathlessly. It _is_  difficult. Deciding what to say. (Sorry I couldn't go shopping for floral arrangements. You'll understand I was a bit braindead at the time. Or: I still can't believe Sumia's married! Or: s'pose this makes you my sister-in-law?)

"Skyhold is a large castle," shrugs Leliana, carrying on her own joke even as her face sears with pity. "You could easily find some old trinket and dust it. Certainly that would be enough for Mia."

"Not you?"

"I'm told I have very impractical taste. Although, actually. . .my favorite gift was that Mia hand-picked the flowers for my wedding bouquet. A common Fereldan wildflower." Leliana takes a long sip of her wine. "The sort my mother used to wear."

"Ah." Mother, he thinks, just the word mother, and his eyes start to sting, because he's a walking raw nerve and a stiff bloody breeze would make him snivel.

Leliana catches his expression and quickly changes the subject. "But that's all past now, _bien sûr_. As the commander likes to remind me, we need to keep our eyes forward."

"That's Cullen?"

"Yes," says Leliana, a quiet question in her tone. "Mia says you have a history."

"I don't know about history. . .I know I picked a fight with him once when he'd just come to the tower."

"I would never presume, Jowan, but. . ." Leliana's blue eyes glimmer with renewed interest. "I did not take you for the type who picks fights."

"I didn't _want_  to, but he was taking the piss with Mi—Su—with Su—bollocks," he sighs, trying to ride out the angry torrent of confused feelings. "I'll get it."

"Take your time," says Leliana again.

"He—Cullen liked to poke fun at. . .Sumia. Because of her eyebrows."

"Her _eyebrows_."

"Yeah, you. . .might not. . .she doesn't do them anymore now. But she was sixteen, seventeen when Cullen first got there, and the moment he laid eyes on her he just r—he wouldn't shut his stupid gob about—"

"Breathe deeply, Jowan. It's all right."

"—and all the other younger Templars joined in. And she started wanting them gone, or smaller, and she asked _me_  to do them! Because she was too shy to ask one of the mage ladies, and the apprentice girls would have made fun too, I suppose."

"And were you any good?"

" _No,_ " laughs Jowan, a hard unbidden laugh, "No. They came out utterly buggered and the Templar boys about shat themselves laughing the next time they saw her. And Mia—Sumia—she _cried_. I had to do _something_."

Leliana says nothing, only leans her chin on her hand and skewers him with her curious gaze.

"I went and got in his face. . .and I hardly shoved him, I was too afraid to do more, but a dozen of them were on me. And they kicked the Void out of me before the Knight-Commander got there."

"But it was chivalrous of you."

"Well." Jowan shrugs. "Sumia figured out how to do them properly and they left her alone. . .at least until Cullen got it into his head that he suddenly liked her."

"Oh, I have heard that part." She drums her gloved fingers on the table. "But you say she kept them plucked? Because they were not that way when I met her. I suppose the—"

"The Blight—"

"—Blight must have made that difficult."

"Yeah," says Jowan. "Yes," says Leliana at the same time. He manages a smile.

"What was that like? The Blight."

"It's going to sound absolutely horrible, but I consider that time one of the happier moments of my life."

A flash of. . .something—anger, but not really. Grief, but not really. "I haven't heard that one yet."

"Not that I _wanted_  it all to happen! I only mean that I. . .well, I met Mia," she says, grinning, almost sheepish. "I made many friends, in fact. The Hero of Ferelden among them."

"I thought Mi—Sumia—I thought Sumia was the Hero of Ferelden?"

"Ah," says Leliana lightly, her cheek twitching. "She is known by that title, but it isn't really hers. Not according to the Fereldan crown."

"Oh?"

"That honor goes to a man named Alistair Theirin. A Warden, like Mia. He. . .did not survive the battle with the Archdemon." She purses her lips, but keeps her expression neutral otherwise.

"I had no idea."

"Many people don't," says Leliana. "There is a monument in Denerim, but people assume it is there only for Mia. She had trouble with that. She and Alistair were very close."

"Close? How close? Not—?"

"He was in love with her. Deeply, even. She. . .had convinced herself that she loved him too. She did!" Leliana blurts, correcting herself. "But not in the same way."

"Then how did you and her end up together?"

"Mia came back to Denerim after a year or two in Antiva."

" _Antiva!_ "

"We met again by pure luck."

"Maker, Sumia." Jowan grins to himself. Trust Mia to take the most complicated, arse-backwards way possible. Oh. Mia, he thinks, and his smile shatters.

"I had loved her since the Blight," adds Leliana pensively. "And I saw that something was not entirely. . .how do I put this. . .something was missing between her and her fellow Warden. But of course," the smirk she gives him makes him feel like her co-conspirator, "I could not give voice to my doubts. I would have looked like a harpy."

"Maker," he says again. "You had your work cut out for you with Sumia."

"I really did, didn't I? I remember helping her with her hair the night before the Landsmeet. This was a meeting of nobles to decide the next ruler of Ferelden, and Mia was to speak, but Alistair had just told her he couldn't be with her, because he was going to be the king."

"This man was going to be the King of Ferelden? Some Warden?"

"No," says Leliana curtly. "Not 'some Warden'—he was the half-brother of King Cailan. He did not think it was fair to Mia to have to keep her hidden."

"Couldn't she have been Queen?" Jowan asks, and the look Leliana gives him—indulgent, expertly gentle—makes him want to sink into the ground.

"An elven woman, and a mage, who would not have borne him an heir. Grey Wardens are nearly always infertile."

"I suppose that does sound a bit too ambitious."

"Alistair certainly thought so. So there I was, brushing her hair as she wept. And I knew that I could not tell her how I felt."

"So you kept it to yourself for two _years?_ "

"Two years is nothing. It could have just as easily been the rest of my life. I only thank the Maker that he brought us together a second time."

"Very cheesy," Jowan says, and freezes. It's true, but he bloody well wanted to keep it to himself.

Leliana giggles, completely unaffected. "Mia tells me the same thing. I think I am content to be cheesy."

"Reckon that's fair."

"You didn't have your eye on anyone in the Circle?"

"I h—I had Lily."

"Ah, yes," says Leliana. "She is still very fond of you, you know."

"She hates me."

"She was the very first one to approach you after the mages had finished. Even before Mia."

". . .oh."

"Something to think about. There is really no rushing these things. You have both suffered these past years."

Jowan sits quietly, because there's no non-embarrassing way to respond to that.

"Oh, Mia!" she suddenly calls, looking past him, and he turns back toward the door to watch a battered Sumia stagger inside.

"Hullo," she says to Jowan even as Leliana rushes her. Sumia brushes some hair out of Leliana's face with her thumb. "How are you two getting on?"

"Mia, you have a—"

"I know, I know, it's all right," says Sumia, pressing the palm of her hand to a shallow cut on her cheek to heal it. "My sparring partner was. . .excitable."

"Who?"

"Blackwall this time. Leli—"

"Oh, I am going to have words with him."

"—please. If anything, it keeps me sharp." For all that she seems bashful about the attention, Sumia beams. Envy settles in Jowan's gut, hard and cold as a stone.

Leliana gives her a smiling sigh that says 'we'll pick this up later' and sits down again.

"So. . ." says Sumia, and she shoots Leliana a look. "D'you want to just jump into it?"

Leliana nods and pours Sumia a glass. Not wine—something honey-brown and troubled from a square bottle. She slides the filled glass over, taking special care to touch Sumia's hand on her way.

Sumia grins down at their locked fingers. "Er," she says, looking back up at him, ". . .we found Solkr."

" _What._ "

"We found Solkr," says Sumia again. "More to the point, really, Leli found him."

"He was not easy to track down," says Leliana gravely. "My agents found him in the Free Marches."

"The Free Marches," Jowan repeats numbly.

"The Amells have got roots there, as it turns out. You know he's related to Damaris Hawke?"

"Where is he _now?_ "

"Oh. In the courtyard. I wanted to bring him in with me, but I didn't think—didn't think you'd appreciate being surprised."

"I'm not made of bloody glass."

"I know. I'm sorry. D'you want me to show you there?"

". . .yeah," he says, after some hesitation.

"Fantastic. Why wait?" Sumia drains her glass and stands. To Leliana she says, "I'll be back in a heartbeat, _ma rose_."

"Cheesy!" says Leliana, smirking mischievously in Jowan's direction.

"S'pose it is. You coming?" she asks. Jowan nods and stands.

"Thanks for the drink," he tells Leliana, "and. . .for."

"I know. It was my pleasure, Jowan."

Sumia walks them briskly out of the little alcove and into the castle's main hall. "Not that I'm any judge, but he's gotten quite striking, Solkr, if you ask me."

"Do you think. . ." That he's missed me. That he knows who I am. That—

"Whatever it is, you can ask him yourself." Sumia waves and in the distance, someone in the courtyard waves back. The figure disappears in a flash of blue and reappears a few feet away. "Nice Fade-stepping."

"I try," says Solkr, grinning his wide, beautiful grin. "Hey, you," he says to Jowan, who just stands there like a particularly dimwitted tree.

"Hi," he croaks at last. "Hi," he says again, his heart pounding like a mad thing. "I'm glad y—it's good to see you."

"You, too! Maker's balls! What did you do with your _hair?_  No—d'you know what, let's talk over a drink. Are you joining us, titch?"

" _Titch?_  Next time the Merchant's Guild puts a price on your head I reckon I'll just let them collect it!" The amused glint in Sumia's eyes softens her outraged tone. "But no. He's all yours." She might just as well be talking to Solkr as to Jowan. Either way, she turns on her heel and goes back the way they came.

"So," says Solkr, shoving his hands into his pockets as they walk down the stone steps. "That's a. . .very fetching. . .brand."

"Oh, Maker," says Jowan, his hand flying to his forehead. "Sumia didn't tell you?"

"Not sure what she was meant to tell me, exactly. I can definitely guess. But give me your version, would you?"

"I. . .got caught, after I escaped the tower. And they. Made me Tranquil."

"Just for escaping?" Solkr scratches idly at the back of his neck. "That Anders boy escaped more times than I can count on both hands. Hell, _I've_ mounted an escape mission once or twice."

"They were planning to do it before I ever left. Th—someone—I—" Deep breaths. "Sorry. It's been a while since. . ."

"I get it."

"You don't. It's been. . .I've been like this for ten years."

"Like—"

"Tranquil!—they. . .found. . .they can reverse it now, that's what they did to me, but it's been ten years of that and only a few weeks of this, so. . .it's hard," Jowan forces a long, shuddering breath into his lungs. "At times."

Solkr quietly produces a handkerchief from an inside pocket of his longcoat. Red and immaculate, with white embroidery.

"Thanks," says Jowan, mortified to find tears running down his face. "Bloody Andraste."

"So you made your escape—didn't go fantastically—and then?"

"No, let me go back. I. . ." Jowan drops his voice. "I poisoned the Arl of Redcliffe at the time. If Sumia hadn't begged them, they'd have executed me." And it would have been kinder, as he still thinks sometimes.

"The Arl? How come?"

"I was caught—wasn't the templars, but someone who told me I'd have my freedom if I did it."

"Sounds like a manipulative bastard."

Jowan scoffs. "Irving always wanted to make me Tranquil, though, because I was—they—thought. . .that I was a blood mage."

"Blood magic!" Solkr practically whoops, drawing several hostile looks. "Good on you! I knew you had a spine in there somewhere!"

Despite himself, Jowan laughs. "That's not really the usual reaction."

"Bollocks to the usual reaction. At least you went down blazing!"

"Well, I went. And they made me Tranquil, and now I'm not. Ta-da," he says flatly, flourishing his hands.

"So how did you get by after the Circles all went to the Void?"

"I didn't. The Inquisition found me wandering the Hinterlands."

"Ah," says Solkr, holding the tavern door. "The fair one enters first."

"That's not the version I learned," mutters Jowan, feeling the blood rush to his face.

"What's your fancy?" asks Solkr, leaning up on the bar. "The shrimp drinks like a man, doesn't she. Nothing but whiskey."

"We had something very sweet the last time we were here."

"Surana? I haven't ever seen her touch anything which threatened to taste good."

"You—how long have you been here, exactly? Have I just been missing you?"

"Aw, I hope you have done," says Solkr, waggling his eyebrows. "But no—I only got here last night," he adds quickly. "I mean we've seen each other once or twice since the Blight. She always buys, and it's always something foul enough to make the Maker cry. She let me try some of that Grey Warden conscription stuff once. That was foul enough to make _me_  cry. Barkeep," he calls, and the dwarf turns and winks. "What did Warden Surana order the last time she was here?"

"You can't seriously expect me to remember th—or. Hold on," says the dwarf, scratching his chin. "It was something very saccharine with more milk and sugar than drink. Didn't think that was her taste."

"Ah," says Solkr again, looking meaningfully at Jowan. "Well, I'm intrigued. Can we get two of those?"

"Aye. Thirty silvers a piece."

"Thir—!" Solkr grumbles and fishes a bulging coinpurse from his belt. "But the shrimp has got expensive taste all of a sudden."

"Oh, don't waste your coin for m—"

"Nonsense," says Solkr, laying the money down. "Where d'you want to sit?"

"Ah. . .by the window, there, if that's all right with you."

"No. Absolutely fucking not, I have a mortal fear of windows and I will not have that glass menace leer at me as I drink my overpriced sugary sludge."

Jowan shoots him a baffled look, and Solkr bursts out laughing. The scar running vertically down his lips catches the light. "Honestly, Jowan. 'If that's all right with me'." And he slides into the window seat. Cautiously, Jowan sits across from him, and Solkr's expression takes on a worried cast. "I don't mean to poke fun. I realize you're most likely not in the mood to be jerked around."

"Oh, no! It's. . .not that. Everyone's just been. Very soft with me lately. Since."

"Pity I'm not soft with anyone," shrugs Solkr.

"But it. . .I—I prefer you that way." Oh Maker's fucking breath that was so bad. Jowan casts a glance outside. Nothing but green as far as the eye can see. "When people treat you as though you're liable to break into a million pieces at the slightest touch," he goes on, slowly, still refusing to meet Solkr's eye, "you start to act like it."

Solkr leans over and flicks Jowan on the shoulder. "Huh," he says, feigning confusion. "No signs of shattering. Not so much as a crack. Remarkable."

"You really aren't one for serious talks, are you."

"I can be extremely serious. I just don't see much point in being serious about this. And, Jowan, you're smiling like an idiot, so either someone wrote a nasty word on my face last night or I'm doing an all right job of this."

He's got no response to that, except to put his face in his hands and laugh. When he comes up again, Solkr is watching him with an intensity that makes his stomach do backflips. "I'm glad you're here," he mumbles.

"Funny thing. That makes two of us."

"So was the Merchant's Guild really after you?"

Solkr blows out a long breath. "That. . .is a long and circuitous story. The short version is 'yes', but the long version is that there's another half-elven Amell bastard roaming the Free Marches. I swear on the Maker. A mage, even."

"That's insane."

"Just insane enough to be true. He left Kirkwall years ago, but he's been making all sorts of trouble in Ostwick the past few years. All small-time stuff, of course. But the bloody thing is he keeps taking false names and so I have no way of proving that I'm not _him!_ "

"So you're completely innocent. It was all your evil twin."

"Does sound insane, doesn't it. Alas."

"But why not leave the Marches?"

"I mean, excuse my rancor, but I just can't fucking stand Ferelden, Jowan. There's no getting work in Orlais, the Anderfels are bleeding cold, and Nevarra. . ." He sighs. "I've tried about every place short of Tevinter and Par Vollen."

"Are they still on your list?"

"Don't know about Tevinter. Par Vollen I might try. I hear that under the Qun they let you. . .dip your quill in the inkwell. . .any time, no charge! Granted, they're all ladies, the courtesans, which isn't exactly my fancy, but they're meant to have these wooden implements on harnesses that. . .aww. Look at you blush. Jowan, you're too easy."

For a moment Jowan can't speak. "Y-you—you don't fancy ladies?"

"Oh, that's the bit that caught you off guard? So you're all right if I keep talking about the assorted wooden phalluses and the bits of—"

"Sorry for the wait!" says the waitress brightly, striding toward them with two fine glasses in hand.

"Thank you," says Jowan quietly.

"Oh, we're ten feet from the bar! You could have just shouted instead of taking time out of your day!" Solkr holds out a handful of silvers to her. "For spoiling us."

"Thank you very much, ser," smiles the waitress, pocketing the money, and leaves.

"Where were we?" asks Solkr. "'Wooden phalluses'?"

"No, we were at you not fancying women."

"Ah. How does that make you feel? Is there a statue of the Holy Andraste nearby? D'you want to go fling ourselves at her feet as we weep for forgiveness?"

"Why am _I_  weeping?"

Solkr's lip quirks in a crooked half-smile, possibly the most handsome expression anyone has ever made. "You tell me."

"Well, you. . .I. . ."

"I s'pose you're just spotless, eh? Pure as the driven snow?" Solkr watches him, one eyebrow raised. Jowan makes no reply. "Wait. Wait. Really?"

"Really _what?_ "

"Maker's fishy breath. I can't believe what I'm hearing. What about that Chantry girl you took up with?"

"Am I really having this conversation?" Jowan challenges the table to a staring contest. "She was an initiate. They take vows."

"And the shrimp?"

"Sumia? What about her?"

"Well, you know. . .we all always had the impression that. . ."

"She's got a wife!"

"Yeah, _now_  she has, but—"

"No! Ew. Ew! That's vile! You know we held a blood ritual as children which we supposed would make us family? You know she offered me her last name, since I didn't have one, so we'd be brother and sister as far as the records were concerned?"

". . .oh."

"Besides, she cares for men about as much as you. . .as you care for women. D'you remember when you tried to marry her?"

" _Marry?_  Oh. I remember I got her to do my chores for a long while. Is that how I managed it?"

"Yeah. She cried until you unmarried her, and then you kept going 'Sumia, you had better bring back my library books or I'll marry you again'. That should have given you a clue."

"I just thought she didn't like the idea of betraying you with me. Even if I was prettier."

"Oi," says Jowan halfheartedly, trying not to say what he's thinking, which is that as the sun plays across his cheekbones, lighting on his brown skin, his curly hair slicked back—but peaking out everywhere—Solkr is, in fact, the most dazzling man in existence.

"So, you're. . .what's the phrase I want. . .you're a red-blooded Fereldan gentleman. A woman's man, if you will."

"I wouldn't say that," says Jowan, taking a sip of the drink at last. It's better than last time.

"No?"

"No. Although I have been Tranquil for ten years. Who's to say?"

"Ha. I'll file that one away for later." Solkr empties half his glass in one go. "Not bad. I mean, not thirty silvers good, as I don't detect any traces of the ashes of Andraste her-fucking-self, but not bad. So," he says, forgetting his irritation with the drink, "d'you have your magic back?"

Jowan sighs. "I could learn it again, if I really wanted to, but I never was a good hand at it."

"Not even—?" Solkr mouths 'blood magic'. "I tend to find that if you don't find your calling in the common schools, you've probably just got a talent the Circle won't let you explore."

"Not just the Circle. I don't want to, either."

"A decision you arrived at, completely independent of any outside influence. Right? Especially not the Chantry breathing down your neck all your life."

"Do you do it?"

"On occasion. But I'm starting to think I am the rare mage who really doesn't have any talents anywhere, not even a hidden one. My secret is I can do just a little bit of everything."

"And that works for you?"

"Along with a bit of good Fereldan common sense, and the lucky charm I keep in my sock."

"Fair enough."

 

* * *

 

Jowan is flipping idly through Sumia's worn copy of _Swords and Shields_  when someone knocks at his door. And then knocks some more. And then some more, for good measure. He opens it to find a put-out-looking Solkr.

"Did I say I was finished? I've been rehearsing my Symphony of Knocks since this morning!"

"Come inside, you arsehole."

"I think the word you want is 'visionary'." Solkr shoves his hands in his pockets and, grinning, walks into the room. "Nice place."

"Ha. And before I forget: ha."

"You think I'm joking? How many people in the entire Inquisition d'you think have their own quarters?"

"It's not supposed to be permanent. But the Inquisitor made them stop reversing Tranquility on people until they were certain I wasn't going to snap and raze the castle."

"Oh."

"It's shit. I don't see why I'm more important than all the dozens of other Tranquil."

Solkr shrugs and sits down on the bed. "Surana made the decision she made. For my part, I'm glad to have you. But why're they so terrified of you especially?"

"Blood mage," Jowan shrugs back.

"That's all?"

"The Inquisitor's a devout Andrastian from a Templar family, what I hear. And they kept me from her until the ceremony couldn't be stopped."

"Ooh." Solkr breathes in sharply. "S'pose that isn't the best first impression."

"No."

"Still, though. At least you've got space. And privacy."

"So what're you here for?" Jowan winces at the bluntness of his own words.

If Solkr's noticed, he doesn't let on. "I'm here to bother you. Obviously."

"Check on me, you mean."

"Someone should."

"Someone does."

"Some—" Solkr catches himself and considers for a moment. "Surana clearly loves you to the moons and back. But she. . .there's something neither of you are telling me, and," he barrels on, holding up his hands to stop Jowan interrupting, "and I won't make demands on your privacy. But spend enough time with nothing except stony faces—Jowan, I ask you. You're in real danger."

" _Danger?_ "

"Metaphorical danger, that is, of becoming. . .just. . .incurably serious. Terminally solemn. I can't stand the idea of never seeing another smile on that lovely mouth."

"Maker," snorts Jowan. "Do you ever hear yourself?"

"I try not to make a habit of it."

"Well, I'm in no danger with you about." He puts the back of his hand to his mouth, trying to control the giant, giddy grin.

"Exactly my thinking!" chirps Solkr.

"I don't think you'd have liked me very much when—when I was Tranquil."

"I'd have liked you all right, but I'd be rather offended if you didn't laugh at my jokes."

"I'm sure."

They sit for a moment, facing one another, Solkr with one leg drawn up onto the bed, observing him as though he were a curious plant. Or a small animal. His gaze is heavy. Suddenly overtaken with the urge to break the silence, Jowan says: "Do you want to know?"

"What?"

"How exactly I became Tranquil?"

"Is it a very happy story?" asks Solkr, with a small smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"What do you think?"

"I think it's a lovely afternoon, Jowan."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you can tell me anything, if it makes your heart lighter. But you don't owe me an explanation."

"I know."

"We could just sit here and talk about nothing important. I could show you a magic trick or two. Anything you like, Jowan."

"You're very fond of saying my name."

"Does that bother you?"

" _No_ , I—" He has to take a deep breath and tamp down the welling frustration. "You ask _so_  many questions," he says at last, sighing shakily. "What do I want to do? And what do I want to talk about? How in the bloody fuck am I meant to know all that? Maker's Blighted pecker," he curses, and before he's even aware of it, Solkr's red handkerchief is in his hand again.

Solkr leans his head on Jowan's shoulder, and loops an arm around his waist. Even feeling ridiculous as he does, sobbing into the stupid red handkerchief, the warm, soft weight of him makes Jowan's heart swell.

"You. . ." begins Solkr, eventually, before trailing off.

"Are you planning on staying?" says Jowan instead. Hating the thick, strained fabric of his voice.

"What?" Solkr sits up, dazedly, though his arm stays pressed against Jowan's middle.  "In here, you mean? I'd certainly have more leg room—"

"With the Inquisition."

"Oh." Solkr frowns at the floorboards and pushes his tongue into his cheek as he thinks. "They're just. . .they're very templar-y, aren't they? I mean, excellent job, the whole saving the world business, but. . .I-I mean," he says, the first time Jowan's ever heard him stumble over a word, "Are you planning on staying?"

"I don't think I have much choice in the matter."

"I thought this thing was volunteer-only. 'Cept for the mercenaries, I suppose, but they can pick up too if they don't mind throwing away their pay. Right?"

"I'm not a mercenary. I'm one, a blood mage, two, a volatile ex-Tranquil blood mage, three, the very same blood mage who tried to kill the Arl. The Inquisitor didn't even want them to reverse the Rite on me. D'you think she's going to want to turn me loose?"

"She can't be that excited to have you _here_. What if you just disappeared? She's got legions of men to look after, no one could fault her for one l—"

"You must be joking. Mia and her wife would catch hell!"

"Then you're stuck."

"Haven't really thought of it like that. I suppose I am."

"Hm," says Solkr, putting a hand to his chin and making a great show of looking thoughtful. "That makes things tricky."

"Oh?"

"Well, I was just thinking to myself that I suppose I could continue to be a nuisance here. At least, for a while. 'S not like I have anything better to do, really."

"Really? You came here from the bloody Free Marches because you had nothing better to do? And you're going to stay here, despite all the templars. . .because you have nothing better to do."

"I thought you'd be pleased," says Solkr, simply, looking wounded.

A cold, iron guilt comes down hard on Jowan and he hurries to speak. "I'm just confused."

"You're a clever boy," replies Solkr, trying to wring his mouth back into the shape of a jaunty smile. "And I don't make a point of using big words."

"It's not your big bloody words I'm wondering about!"

"You could do it too, Jowan, if you liked. You can wake up tomorrow and think 'I'd like to see Rivain' and just fucking well go. I know you're used to thinking you can't, but you can do, now, and so can I. It's not as strange as you seem to want to think."

"I—"

"Don't say anything. Try it. Right now, at this moment, what d'you want to do? Pick an elfroot. Smash in the window. Undo the buttons on your shirt and put them back crooked. Anything. Whatever. Please."

"You know whatever I do, I'm still following your order," says Jowan, fearfully trying at a joke, but Solkr looks at him with such eyes. . ."OK," he amends, looking around the room. It's sparse. There's the bed. Two books. An end table with Sumia's perfume sitting on top. He takes the perfume and sets it gently on the floor, then turns the end table upside-down and places it down that way.

Solkr watches him from the bed with a quiet, manic delight. "Something else," he urges. "Don't think."

The slight, barely-there afternoon rain has slowly become a deluge of fat, lukewarm water drops, and Jowan crosses to the window and opens it and puts his hands out to catch the water in his palms.

He turns back, his hands dripping and the fresh, light air filtering into the room. Solkr shoots him a small smile that strikes him as a challenge. Jowan walks to the bed and sits down and flicks the water at him. Solkr cries out with real surprise before lapsing into laughter. "Good!" he adds. "That's excellent!"

A water droplet glistens just in the centre of Solkr's lower lip, where the scar runs like a white-gold rivulet. The impulse seizes Jowan to kiss it away, to feel the cool wet droplet on his own mouth. So he does, taking Solkr's face in his hands. It only lasts for a second, but all the same he gasps when they come apart.

"I th. . .I think you passed that one with flying colors," says Solkr, breathlessly. He grins off at nothing in particular.

"I'm sorry," Jowan rasps, pulling his hands away, his heart sinking below the floorboards. "I'm sorry."

Something terrified but nonetheless determined flashes in Solkr's face. He reaches over and takes Jowan's hands from his lap and kisses him. Jowan feels his mouth fall open, purely from the shock, and Solkr, for his part, relaxes into it, weaving his fingers in Jowan's hair, somehow caressing and pulling him closer at the same time. They part slowly this time, leisurely.

"So there's your bloody reason if you want it," says Solkr quietly, pulling his sleeve over the heel of his hand and raking it impatiently across his watering eyes.

"Oh."

" _Oh._ "

"You. . .good Andraste, what am I meant to make of that? Was that another of those things you do just because you can? It's going," Jowan swallows, "to kill me if you say 'yes'. I—"

"Actually I've been thinking of doing that for at least. . .seventeen years, on and off? Sometimes idly. Sometimes _fervently_. So. . .you know. There was at least a little planning involved, Jowan."

"You're fucking joking. You never once looked my way!"

"That you knew," Solkr shrugs. "I can be discreet."

Jowan laughs, exasperated, and puts his face in his hands. "You absolute bastard."

"That's what it says on all my papers."

"So what d'you think's going to happen now?"

"Whatever in the world you like," says Solkr, unsmiling, fixing him with that heavy stare again. "All my cards are on the table, which is a position I hate to be in, but. . ." He mimes spreading a hand of cards across a table top. "For you. I could have kept away from the Merchant's Guild if I'd really wanted to. I could even have kept away from the Inquisition people Surana sent. But they gave me your name and I went with them.

"D'you know what I came in here to say?" Solkr goes on, with a sudden defensive laugh."My plan, such as it was, I was going to offer, you know, to shake your sheets."

" _What?_ "

"As a friendly affair, I mean. A favor. Something to take off the awkward edge for when you inevitably find someone el—or—when you find someone. So that was my plan, and then a few weeks later I was going to leave. Amicably."

"Well, bloody hell, I'd have said _no_ , Solkr—"

"I realize—"

"—because if I didn't think it meant anything to you. . .if I thought you were doing it just because? I can't stick the idea."

"Well, that makes two of us, because what I realize now is that I'd have only fucked it up and just gotten all soppy. Sort of exactly like I'm doing at the moment."

"So what's going to happen?" demands Jowan again. "What're you going to do?"

"That depends ent—"

"Don't give me that. I did your little assignment, the table and the rain and—I don't know if you were looking for proof that I've got all my wits back—just be simple about it. Tell me what you're thinking. You're giving me a headache, you really are." He reaches for the crumpled red handkerchief.

"I want to stay here with you," rushes Solkr, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. He opens them again and blinks absently at the opposite wall. "I want to see where we go, if anywhere. And I reckon that when the lady Inquisitor gets well and truly sick of you, and if _you're_  not sick of _me_ , I could take us somewhere interesting. That's what I'm thinking." His mouth moves, probably to finish off with a joke, but he says nothing else.

Neither does Jowan. He can't.

In the quiet, Solkr takes his hands again, with the same brief fear in his eyes. "L-listen,"  he says, at last, his voice trembling, "let's both take some time and collect our thoughts and we can pick up again. Er. Later." And he disappears out into the rain.

 

* * *

 

Solkr disappears until two nights later, when he catches Jowan in the courtyard. Or Jowan catches him.

"Hi!" breathes Solkr. "I was hoping to find you tonight. I won—well, how are you feeling, first of all?"

"OK?" says Jowan, bemused. "Are you?"

"Better than ever. Will you, ah, join me for drinks?"

"Now?"

"Yes, now. In an hour, if you like. At the stroke of midnight. Or now."

"Are—are you sure you're—"

Solkr doesn't interrupt him, but the corner of his mouth twitches, something in his expression makes Jowan trail off. "We'll talk inside," he says, grinning unsteadily.

"Sure."

It occurs to Jowan as they walk that Solkr might indeed have been hoping to find him. His curly hair, for once, has been subdued beneath a gleaming veneer of oil, except for one loose coil which falls onto his forehead, bouncing with every little motion of his head. Two silver earrings sparkle at the softly pointed tip of his ear. The light shadow of stubble is about his jaw. His tattered traveling coat has been replaced by a scaled mantle of dark, thick leather. He has a strange, ineffable glamour in the tavern lamplight.

Solkr glides past the bar, ordering something-or-other and taking the proffered bottles off the counter without even breaking his stride, and leads them upstairs, to a table nestled in the corner of the second floor. He sets the bottles down first. They chime dully, bumping into one another.

"What did you get?" asks Jowan, sitting down.

"Try it."

So he does. It's just bitter water, really, with the vague after-taste of corn or grain or something. "Redcliffe ale."

"For the life of me I couldn't tell you why they bothered to find a supplier for this piss, but there you are. For old times' sake." Solkr holds out his bottle, motioning for Jowan to do the same, and they toast—the glass clinks pleasantly.

"Flames," says Jowan, taking a swig. "Stuff's not gotten any better."

"You know I had this theory that they brewed it somewhere near the Tower specifically to inflict it on us as an act of violence, but no, everyone in that village drinks it. Voluntarily. Given the choice." Solkr shakes his head and grimaces at the brown glass bottle. "I want to apologize."

"A _pol_ —"

"For going so completely off my head the other day. I don't know what was the matter with me. You're still on the mend, Jowan, and for me to have barged in and started making ridiculous declarations of. . .making propositions. . .I think we'd ought to forget it. And I know something better than this stuff," he flourishes the half-empty bottle, "for the job."

"You unbelievable coward," says Jowan, rising from his seat (with the bottle still in hand).

"I— _coward?_ "

"Thanks for the beer." Jowan starts down the stairs, and walks back out into the cool of the courtyard. Solkr is on him in seconds, taking him by the shoulder.

"Jowan, I don't," he says, and he seems to lose his breath. "I don't understand."

"Bloody sorry for you then."

"What did I do wrong?" he begs, and his great black eyes are so lost and wide Jowan's got to oblige him a little.

"You can either tell me you want to be with me," he says calmly, finishing the last of the ale, "or you can play it off like you're only being friendly, but you can't do one and then lose your fucking nerve and try to talk it away. I'm not that thick in the head."

"No! I—"

"What did you say? Seventeen _years?_  Bollocks. You can't have felt that way for seventeen years and then do this. Not seriously."

"What do you want me to do?"

"I don't know. Use your free will."

Solkr makes a frustrated sound and plows through his hair with both hands, completely wrecking the combed-back shape of it. "You know they brought us in within a month of each other? Since I was old enough to know I could w. . .want people, I. . .it was you. What was I going to do?"

"Flirt with everything on two legs that wasn't me, I suppose."

"Maybe if you'd preened and giggled as I walked past and told me how exotic I was."

"Fat chance of that."

"Well, there you fucking well go," says Solkr, with a short, flat laugh. "What more do I have to say to convince you?"

"You didn't come to see me once in ten years."

"I didn't know! I got out during the Blight and I learned to. . .stop picking after loose ends, because most of the time you learn that the person you're after—is—has died, probably in some horrible way or other. I was perfectly content to keep you safe in my head. Fucking _Andraste_ , you're making a whinger of me!" Solkr laughs, and the laugh becomes a sob. He pulls Jowan to him and hugs him as if the world is falling away beneath them. Jowan finds himself hugging back just as tightly.

When they finally come apart—neither of them seem to want to pull away—Solkr is flushed and smiling and wet-faced. Jowan imagines he looks the same way.

"If you ask me what I want, Solkr," Jowan warns, "I'm going to lose it."

Solkr chuckles, a thin, watery, genuine sound. "I actually have an idea—that is, if you're all right with my imposing, as if I haven't done en—"

"Solkr."

"I know," he says, squinting up at the moon for a moment. "Why don't we. . .just. . .get to know each other."

"You're still on about that?"

" _No_ , you pest!" Solkr laughs and swats him. "I meant to say that. . .for all the secret pining we seem to have done. . .I don't know very much about you at all, and I'd like for that to change sooner than later, you know."

"Oh."

"I think it'd be nice to have some clear air between us. No expectations. What say you?"

 

* * *

 

Solkr comes over the next afternoon, and the next, and the next, bearing various drinks for them to sample each time. At first they just lounge on the bed (there's no other place in the room to really lounge) and talk. Jowan tells him what he remembers of the woman he thinks was his mother. Solkr talks about his own mother, a cousin of Hawke's mother, which he supposes makes them second cousins or cousins once removed or something to that effect. He talks, too, about his travels after the Blight, his rare meetings with Sumia, and, fiddling with his handkerchief, he describes a few past lovers in brief, idle terms. Nothing serious, he reassures and reassures. And whatever vague electric power Solkr had over Jowan that first day at Skyhold, it grows tenfold. When their hands brush, it's something like standing near an open fire.

One day Solkr suggests they practice some magic, and, reluctantly, remembering the trip back to Redcliffe with Sumia, Jowan agrees. Solkr's approach is different. There's no room for coaxing, only finding the strong points and sticking to them. Fire, they find, is not a strong point, nor ice or glyphs or anything to do with entropy. Healing takes, a little. Solkr starts to bring with him a sharp pocketknife of some dark unknown metal and scrapes it across the back of his hand, too lightly to even draw blood. Eventually Jowan starts to be able to fix shallow cuts—paper cuts, at most.

"You know," says Solkr, spinning the tip of the blade idly against his palm, "and I don't want to frighten you, Jowan, but this is the closest possible step to blood magic."

"I'm not doing it."

"All right," says Solkr, and plunges the blade clear through his hand, creating a small whirlwind of little deep-red droplets. "It's a very pretty school, I think," he says, with some strain, as he pulls out the knife and, slowly, the blood returns to him and the wound seals itself up, like the last guest closing the door behind him. Even the knife is clean. "You could also choose to just. . .embrace your lack of magic. No one says you have to try to bring it back if you're happier with it gone. Have you thought of that?"

"I'm useless without it."

"Who wants useful people?" Solkr huffs. "The Inquisition. For all the good it does them. What d'you want to be useful for?"

"I want to give back," says Jowan firmly. "I want to make amends for all the mistakes I've made."

"Well, don't we all, but you don't need to be a mage to do any of that."

"S'pose not." Jowan takes Solkr's hand, ostensibly to make sure the knife wound is properly healed (not that he'd be able to do fuck-all if it wasn't). Solkr sees through him and laces their fingers together. "D'you want to hear it now? What happened in Redcliffe?"

"Have you ever tried necromancy?"

" _What?_ " A brief flash of panic—Connor's face—and he wrenches his hand away and tries to play it off by straightening his shirt collar.

"Sorry. Just thinking out loud, Jowan. Go on and tell me whatever you like."

"What about necromancy?"

"Nothing special, I'm just wondering if we really have tried everything. I knew a girl in southern Nevarra who fancied herself an herbalist, and there was a very specific breed of moss which she insisted could communicate with people. Although I don't know how useful talking to moss will be in whatever plans you have. Shapeshifting?" Solkr adds.

"Tried it with Mia. Nothing doing."

"Ah. Well, what was it about Redcliffe?"

"I've changed my mind, I think."

"Was it something I said?"

"No, not really. I'm just not in the mood."

"Fine by me," says Solkr, lying down on the bed, placing his head squarely in Jowan's lap. "Oh—did I startle you?" he grins.

"Are you off your head?"

"My head is fine. You'll want to ask yours what it's hoping to get at. . ." He sits up quickly, and when Jowan reaches to thump him on the shoulder he treats it as a hug and slings his arms around Jowan's neck, laughing all the while. "You're so _easy!_ "

"You're doing it on purpose," grumbles Jowan, blushing furiously.

"And if I am?" says Solkr, the mirth going out of his expression.

"Then—" Jowan kisses him, for the first time in weeks. Solkr's stubble scratches, but his lips are soft. Jowan realizes that if he concentrates, he can feel the thin line of scar tissue running down Solkr's mouth. Solkr kisses him back hard, sighing and seizing him by the sides of his face. They half-fall, half-fumble so that Jowan is lying on the bed and Solkr straddles him. "—stop bloody _joking_ ," Jowan finishes his thought.

Solkr stares down at him for a moment, open-mouthed. "Are you certain?"

"Yes! Yes, I'm certain, for the Maker's sake!"

"OK, OK. I just had to check to see if I wasn't dreaming," grins Solkr, and sits up on his knees to toss aside his heavy coat.  He looks in the direction of the door. "Does the—"

"Yeah. But I haven't got the key."

"Piss." Solkr sticks his hand out toward the door and casts a white, wispy charm Jowan's never seen before. The door clicks soundly. "There."

"Can you show me that one?"

"Well, I can do, but it's finicky, you—"

"Later, I mean. Later," Jowan corrects himself, reaching up to pull Solkr down into another kiss, and his heart about stops when Solkr slides a hand under his shirt, pushing it up all the way past his navel and coming to rest on his side, Solkr's thumb brushing slowly back and forth over his ribs.

Then Solkr pulls away, sitting up again. "Are you very committed to staying on the bed? Because I have an idea."

"Really making me work for it, aren't you," sighs Jowan, even as excitement thrums in his core. Solkr takes his hand and leads him to the far corner of the room. "Let's have it th—"

Solkr kisses him, cutting him off, hotter this time, less concerned with appearances. His breath flares on Jowan's cheek. He backs Jowan into the wall, pressing their upper bodies close together, and slowly his mouth moves down the length of Jowan's neck—his shirt collar stops the advance. Jowan grunts and worms off the shirt as quickly as he possibly can. "Don't tear it," Solkr warns, watching him with that crooked smile. Jowan ignores him. As soon as the shirt's out of the way, Solkr goes back to trailing kisses all along Jowan's shoulder, into the hollow of his collar bone, lower, Jowan shoves his hands under the back of Solkr's shirt as he works, thrilling when his fingers find the warmth of bare skin.

"Here," says Solkr at last and takes his own shirt off, much smoother, looking much less like a bungler. Jowan sighs to look at him; he's lean, his brown skin crisscrossed here and there with little scars, the hair on his chest and his belly dark and curling—and—for all he insists he's no good in a fight, he could have been carved from stone.

"You're so good," breathes Jowan, and blushes immediately and fiercely, because it's such a stupid way to word what he means.

Solkr touches the side of his face with an expression so fond Jowan might splinter from the softness of it. "Thank you."

"Can I—" Jowan brings his hands in front of him and watches them quiver. Touches Solkr's broad shoulders.

Looking very much like he's poring over a puzzle, Solkr takes Jowan's hands and guides them to his waist. "You can do whatever you like."

Jowan takes this to heart, ghosting his hands over Solkr's every scar, every birthmark, pushing back his own wonderment, trying to drink it all in, to keep it for ever. After an eternity, Solkr's hands start to float toward Jowan's belt buckle. "Can I?"

"Yes," Jowan says under his breath. Some witty remark drifts at the edge of his mind. He leaves it alone. Solkr undoes the belt with expert swiftness and leaves Jowan to step out of his trousers as he unlaces his own muddy boots. Jowan's just finished by the time Solkr starts to ease his own trousers off his hips. He sees Jowan staring and slows down, grinning, but even he hasn't the patience to keep up the show for too long.

"Have you got a _piercing_  there?" Jowan giggles.

"Yeah," says Solkr, levering his cock to give Jowan a better view. "I wanted gold, but."

"I like the silver on you."

"That's what everyone says." He reaches out, slowly, and Jowan holds his breath. Slowly, horribly slowly, Solkr closes his hand around Jowan's cock. "You're so lovely, d'you know that?" he murmurs as he starts to build a slow back-and-forth with his fist. Numbly, beyond speaking, Jowan takes hold of Solkr's hips, mostly because he's got to hold something—every stroke of Solkr's hand is unbelievable, because it's _him_ and he's _there_  and he's as blazing hot to the touch as a fire rune.

Then—a quick flash of cold—he pulls his hand away. Jowan groans. "I know," soothes Solkr. "Had another idea." He leaves go of Jowan and takes himself in hand and presses them together, thrusts once, tentatively, into his own hand and the friction makes Jowan gasp. Seeming to like his idea, Solkr pushes closer, backing Jowan even nearer against the wall, and surges forward, time and again, and the feeling of Solkr's cock against his and the gentle pressure of his cool fingers is—Maker's breath. Holy insight. Can't be described. Especially now. Jowan lets his head fall forward and listens, feels as his moans and Solkr's quiet cursing both peak together.

"Solkr—I—" and the rest comes out a sigh as Solkr thrusts one final time and Jowan spends himself. Solkr touches him gently, wringing the little aftershocks from him with careful concentration.

"You are _so_ lovely," Solkr repeats softly.

Jowan can't find the right reproach. He wraps his hand, come-slick, around Solkr's cock, and pumps it, desperately aware of his own clumsy movements—it's different doing it on someone else—until Solkr rests his head on Jowan's shoulder and comes with nothing louder than a broken breath.

Somehow they make it to the bed.

"Jowan," says Solkr, lying with his forehead pressed against Jowan's back. "Jowan."

"You were going to just. . ."

"I know. I reckon, if it's your first time, it should be about you."

"Oh, bollocks."

Solkr laughs as Jowan turns back to face him. "You're very thoughtful." He kisses Jowan's forehead, just in the center of his brand. "You're very thoughtful." He shakes his head. "Let me not say anything stupid. Are you very opposed to the idea of just lying here for a bit?"

"No," mumbles Jowan, half-muffled by the pillow.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I really was just gunna leave it at the "untranquil" entry but 1) i felt bad doing all that setup only to have solkr...not appear? And 2) i felt bad not giving jowan the ********* ******** ** **** ***** he deserves :/


End file.
